


You're Coming Back

by fortyfive_rpm (2davidbeckham3)



Series: Dial Tone [2]
Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/fortyfive_rpm
Summary: An international flight and a kiss.
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Series: Dial Tone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837687
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	You're Coming Back

**Author's Note:**

> Late 80s references galore.
> 
> Title from The Rolling Stones song Tell Me (You're Coming Back).

Keith knows the formidable force of nature that is Mick Jagger all too well. He’s just happy to be able to admire its effects from afar instead of being caught in the path of destruction, for once. It almost makes the charges he’s accruing from his second long-distance phone call for the evening worth it. 

“When’d you _—_ ” Keith grunts, flinching at the sound of the phone cradle clattering off the table. “When’d you say the second flight leaves?” He looks over his shoulder to see that he’s pulling the coil phone cord taut, loops unwinding into waves. The cradle hangs off the ground, forming the midpoint in the catenary chain made by him and the wall, since he’s gone and fully exposed the telephone wire while rummaging for his clothes. 

_“Less than an hour. But it’s from LaGuardia.”_

Keith doesn’t know, or care, enough about New York City geography to understand Mick’s hesitance. “Think I’ll make it?”

Mick starts replying _“I think y—”_ before cutting himself off at the sound of a door slamming open. 

It’s Ronnie’s way of announcing his arrival, his dramatic entrance offset by him stumbling over the hyper-extended telephone wire a few moments later.

Ronnie’s slow to stand, his lethargic movements betraying a night’s worth of drinking. “ _Stupid fuckin’_ —Uh,” Ronnie’s gaze flicks between the bag on his bed and the phone tucked into Keith’s shoulder. “Goin’ somewhere?”

Keith didn’t expect to see Ronnie back so soon, but at least it saves him the trouble of leaving a note. “Back to London,” Keith replies, doing his best to keep his voice even and sound nonchalant, despite having Mick, silent, on the other end of the line.

“And you have to go,” Ronnie’s retort is a flat confirming statement, rather than a question. “Right now,” he adds, incredulity seeping into his tone. 

Despite Ronnie’s hostility, Keith feels compelled to reply to the unspoken rhetorical question hanging in the air. “I’ve some loose ends to tie up.” He’s usually more open with Ronnie, they don’t make a habit of keeping secrets from each other. This time, though, things are different. This time, it's his heart on the line and Keith's already risked it once tonight and he’s in the midst of assuring that it won’t end up shattered somewhere along the Atlantic. 

Still, Ronnie’s not intoxicated enough to take Keith’s nonresponse for anything but what it is. A long pregnant pause follows while he waits for Keith to elaborate. “Are you coming back?” Ronnie finally asks, breaking the stalemate. The question appears more open-ended than it actually is, given the way Ronnie’s swaying in place, the conversation is effectively over.

This time, Keith goes for honesty, despite the impending consequences. “I can't really say.” 

The response has its expected effect. Ronnie looks up from where he’s leant down to unzip his boots to glare at Keith through narrowed eyes. When it’s obvious Keith won’t elaborate, he turns and continues his task with a deep sigh. “You’ve got Rod’s address yeah? 

Keith lips curl down into a grimace at the reminder. “Yeah.” He’s not looking forward to the possibility of crawling back to New York to nurse a broken heart at Roddy fucking Stewart’s house. 

Ronnie nods, waving a hand in Keith’s direction in a dismissive gesture. “I’ve his phone number in my wallet, if you need it.” It’s all he says before he flops face down on the hotel bed, spreading out in the thin rectangle of space unoccupied by Keith’s unfolded clothes. A few moments later, the sounds of Ronnie’s wheezing snores fill the air. 

_“Personally, I like flying from JFK better.”_

“Mick, jus' pick one.”

**—**

If commercial flights are hell, then international commercial flights live in the ninth circle of hell. Keith wouldn’t be surprised if Judas Iscariot himself turned out to be one of his flight attendants. Maybe he’s still reeling from the night he’s had - nerves rubbed raw, exposed to the elements with every little thing grating against the endings, leaving him feeling more than just a little torn and frayed - but he’d just got off one of the worst flights he’s been on in years. Now, he’s suffering through the second phase of the torment known as Heathrow customs. 

Keith stares down the wide-eyed custom agent who looks two-double takes away from getting whiplash. “An-Anything you need to dec-declare,” the agent stammers, looking down at Keith's passport for the umpteenth time. “Mr. Richards?” 

“Nope.” The curt response prompts a brief stare-off. Maybe the agent was expecting a ‘yes,' his reputation does precede him and all, but Keith’s telling the truth. It’s only when the kid breaks his gaze to examine his desk that Keith realizes what’s truly going on. 

“Got scrap paper and a pen?” It’s only then that the agent gives Keith back his passport, only to push a small piece of paper and a pen into Keith’s hands. Feeling generous, he autographs the paper with a flourish. “You can keep this for your personal records. Can I go now?”

“Uh,” The starstruck agent nearly stamps the back of Keith’s hand instead of his passport. “Yes sir.”

Once he’s out of customs, it’s easier to blend into the crowd. It’s easier to be missed, walking unseen through the mass of tunnel-visioned people eager to reunite with their loved ones. In the span of three steps, Keith passes two cheering families and a couple of weeping lovers sharing an intimate embrace. He knows better than to expect a similar, ostentatious display from Mick, but the thought makes him smile, just the same. 

Mick really can’t turn it off, Keith realizes, the smile sliding off his face as the nerves he thought he’d left in the United States make themselves known again. There’s something magnetic about Mick Jagger that no sunglasses and hunched shoulders can hide. All the damn strutting across the stage, somehow, shaped his fabricated confidence into something innate. Keith missed exactly when it happened, or, maybe, he’s just that attuned to Mick that he can spot each him, even within a sea of people.

There’s no sound of violins, no angelic chorus, when they finally lock eyes. 

“Hey.” It’s Mick who speaks first after Keith stops in front of him. It’s a subdued, timid greeting, unlike the confident travel agent Keith spoke to a few hours before. 

“Hey, yourself.” 

Mick raises a brow at Keith’s blasé greeting. “Check in any bags?” 

Keith shakes his head, “Nah, we can go.” He already knows how much they’re risking, being out in the open like this. They only need one of the less competent paparazzi from _The Sun_ to snap a picture of the Glimmer Twins exchanging pleasantries at Heathrow for there to be an international scandal. 

Mick nods his head before inclining his head, signalling Keith to follow. “I drove here.”

They brush shoulders as they walk to the car park. It's their only reprieve from the tense silence that fills the air. The undercurrent of their months-long fight still lingers, unspoken, between them, but, now, there's another, crackling emotion in the mix that's harder to ignore, faint sparks of ozone before a thunderstorm. 

Keith’s suffocating under the oppressive air once they reach the car. He tosses his bag in the back seat before turning to Mick. He’s desperate to dispel the strained air, but hesitant to speak. Even taking a deep breath might unintentionally set off a spark. 

Mick puts an end to Keith’s internal debate by speaking first. “Nice flight?” He asks, taking his sunglasses off and tucking them into the neck of his shirt, fully ridding himself of his ridiculous disguise. He’s lucky that no one looked twice at the man that was wearing sunglasses well past sunset. It’s an awkward question, better suited for acquaintances rather than a duo with a decades-long friendship, but, at least, he was brave enough to break the ice. 

Keith leans his head back against the headrest in a futile attempt to relax his shoulders. “It was fuckin’ awful,” Keith admits, frowning at the line of cars in front of them, typical airport traffic. “A woman wouldn’t stop complainin’ about the in-flight movie.” His frown deepens into a scowl at the memory. “I had to listen to her whole life’s story and how she hated Tom Selleck _and_ how she hated _Three Men and a Baby_.” He’s basically babbling at this point, but he’s been spoiled with private jets. 

Mick chuckles, apparently finding Keith’s grievances amusing. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees Mick’s lips curl into a crooked smirk. He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Not with her bitchin’. They also only had that horrible Coca-Cola t’drink.” 

“Hey,” Mick’s offended exclamation causes Keith to look over and fully face him. “I love New Coke.” Mick glances over and holds Keith’s disbelieving gaze for a few seconds before the sound of a horn turns his attention back to the road.

The sarcastic retort slips past Keith’s lips before he can stop it. “Of course y’do.”

Surprisingly, the would-be insult goes unchallenged by Mick, a stark reminder of the new dynamics budding between them. It marks the end of their stilted conversation and brief break from the heavy atmosphere that fills the space between them. 

It takes two Madonna songs on the radio before one of them speaks again. “I, uh,” Mick clears his throat, gaze never wavering from the stopped airport traffic in front of them. “I missed you.” The words are followed by an uncharacteristic display of nervous energy as Mick drums his fingers against the gear shift. 

Keith’s heart swells in his chest and, suddenly, he finds it hard to respond. He wasn’t expecting to hear any three-word phrases from Mick, especially barely an hour into his return. Keith’s not good with words, he prefers to speak through his actions, instead. He taps his fingers on Mick’s wrist before he pulls Mick’s hand off the shift to lace their fingers together. “I missed you, too.” He looks back up at Mick before briefly squeezing Mick’s hand, hoping the gesture could better convey the depth of his affection. 

“So, where are—” Keith’s words are lost after Mick smashes his lips into Keith’s. It’s a chaste, off-center kiss, with Mick mostly brushing his lips against Keith’s chin rather than his mouth. 

“Did you jus’ kiss me?” Keith asks once Mick pulls away, mainly speaking to the singer’s splotchy pink profile. 

The question makes the flush on Mick’s face deepen. He takes a few moments to respond, changing lanes while considering Keith’s question. “If you don’t know what that was, then we have bigger problems here,” comes Mick’s testy retort, taking Keith’s mostly rhetorical question as an insult. 

“No, I mean,” Keith waits until traffic stops again to continue with his question. “Was that really a _kiss_?” He brings his right hand to the back of Mick’s neck to pull his gaze from the road onto him. “I need t’know so I can do this.” Keith tilts Mick’s head towards him before he pushes himself across the center console to capture Mick’s lips in a proper kiss. It’s not the first time Keith has kissed Mick, but it’s the first time he’s done it mostly sober - lack of sleep, notwithstanding. It’s better this way, hyper aware of the sensation of Mick’s plush lips moving against his soft, silken hair slipping through his fingertips. Keith wants to do this for hours, if only to make up for lost time. He’s about to slip his tongue through Mick’s parted lips when the sound of another distant car horn brings him back to his surroundings. 

“Your breath is horrible.”

Keith pauses rubbing his stomach, now screaming in agony after being crushed by the gear shift, to glare at Mick. He could explain what airline food and hours of not sleeping does to a person, but he decides to go the simpler route. “Hey, fuck you,” Keith replies, not quite able to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Yes,” Mick laughs, before glancing over at Keith with a sly, flirty smile, recovering some of the confidence he usually shows on stage. “Would you?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Epilogue_

  
  
  


Despite the inordinate amounts of cushions on his bed, at least Mick’s bedroom had something going for it: a telephone on the nightstand. It's another reason why Keith would rather stay at Mick’s place instead of the Sheraton, though it's not the most important factor. “Hello, yes. I’d like to place an international collect call to New York.” He’s in the middle of listing the number when he hears the unmistakable sound of rustling bedsheets. “Can I speak to Ron Wood?” Keith asks after a few long moments, dismissing the unfamiliar voice that answered the phone.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey Ronnie,” Keith greets, stifling a yawn.

_“Keith? Where the fuck are you?”_

Keith ignores Ronnie’s question, choosing, instead, to say what he had planned. “‘M gonna stay in London.”

_“I sorta guessed after you didn't call two days ago.”_

Keith winces at the annoyed note in Ronnie's tone. He lays down onto his back, turning to look at the figure next to him. “Yeah, change in plans.” It’s not quite an apology. Even Mick hears right through it, if his raised a brow and teasing smile are anything to go by. 

_“Is this your convoluted way of telling me that you’re working on another album?”_

Keith opens his mouth to respond to Ronnie’s accusation, only to change course and try to swallow his tongue at the sight of the pale expanse of skin Mick inadvertently revealed after stretching. “Call me when you're back in England.”

_“Is this about The Stones?”_

Keith only barely hears Ronnie’s follow-up, “Bye Woody. You know my number.” Keith turns back to Mick after reaching over to hang up the phone. “Ronnie thinks we're gonna spring an album on him.” He explains, eyes glued to the dark strip of hair on Mick's stomach that disappears into the sheets. 

“Mmm,” Mick hums, sliding closer to rake his fingernails down Keith's bare chest. “That would be something, wouldn't it?” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I try to write Mick saying I love you and it never makes the cut. Will this series need a trequel? It might! Let me know what you think!
> 
> (I'll be back to add relevant links here when I'm not on mobile)
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading.


End file.
